


With No Direction Home

by tabaqui



Series: Vampires in Space [1]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Firefly
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:19:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://rekindlespangel.livejournal.com/">Rekindlespangel</a> challenge at Livejournal.    Set in the Firefly 'verse, this fic takes Spike - and Angel - from leaving Earth-that-was to halfway through the terraforming of the 34 Tauri system (The Battle of Serenity Valley).   No 'Firefly' characters appear in this fic.   Title is from 'Like a Rolling Stone' by Bob Dylan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With No Direction Home

_Fùyīncáo_ \- I'm in hell  
 _Càodàn_ \- Fuck  
 _Wángbādàn_ \- Bastard  
 _Gāisǐ_ \- Damn it  
 _Yēsū Jīdū_ \- Jesus Christ  
(These are translated to the best of my and the 'net's ability. Any corrections welcomed.)

 

It was 2101, and the generation ships were going out. Earth was a dust-brown dot, diminishing by increments in the rear port of the _Thule_ , lost and lonely-looking in the vast darkness that lay beyond ten inches of cloudy plex.

Spike leaned there, the chill of space coming through the riveted metal of the hull – stood there until Earth was lost to distance, a mote in a great god's eye that was all of everything. He leaned there until he was chilled through, stiff and aching, and then he walked away.

2218, and Spike was on the _Zhonghua_ now, the first of China's great transports. The _Cathay_ and the _Yangtze_ , the _Han_ , the _Tang_ and the _Liao_ strung out behind her. The _Jin_ had been lost twenty years before; an abrupt and brief blossoming of fire in blackness. They'd salvaged for days amidst the twisted remains, ice-shrouded bodies bumping sadly against their suited sides and drifting aimlessly on.

Children ran in the corridors, dressed in their olive and mud-brown uniforms, little red stars fading on their shoulders and in their minds. A hundred-thousand living on this ship - millions more locked in cryo-freeze, embryos and zygotes and eggs and sperm, waiting. Spike eased his way around the kids, walked to the lifts and went down; down to the belly of the beast, where the last of the Star Generation was being shunted out into space. Last of that first wave, babies conceived in the hectic months of the going-out, last of the first. All those that came after – mundane.

Spike watched the body go and sighed, wished for a smoke but he'd been out for months. The procession of mourners trooped past him, some stooped with age and bone-loss, two or three giving him long, searching looks. Soon be time to move on.

 

His next ship was the _Nubia_ , the change brought about by Spike smuggling himself aboard a black-market trade pod – hydroponic peppers and tomatoes for hemp seeds and pressed bars of protein. Uncrating himself and his bag in the dead of alter-day, he stretched and groaned and stumbled out of storage, and straight into a broad, hard, cold chest.

Straight into his past. 

"What were you doing – in…."

"Nothing, just…Christ. Fucking…Christ."

Spike felt his knees shaking – felt the deck seem to tilt and he sat down, hard. There were feet and then knees next to him, and then arms and shoulders and…. _Angel_. Angel, for fuck's sake, sitting right there and gaping like a fish.

" _Fùyīncáo_ ," Angel muttered, and Spike punched his shoulder. Hard.

" _You're_ in hell? Fuck you. "

"Ow," Angel said, though he hadn't moved, and was staring at Spike as if Spike were a ghost. "I thought...the last I heard, you were dead."

"I get that." Spike felt for his new smoke pouch – taken off the unlucky crewwoman he'd jumped to get into the pod – and pulled it out, rolling up a smoke with hands that, infuriatingly, were shaking a bit. " _Càodàn_!" 

"Oh, good, you learned a new way to say 'fuck'," Angel muttered, and this time Spike kicked him. " _Ow!_ Stop hitting me!"

"Stop being a prat." Spike licked the smoke shut and lit it, shoved the pouch away and took a hard, deep drag – tobacco and hemp and granules of opium – thank fuck for hydroponics. "Where.... Have you been here the whole bloody time?"

Angel gave him a look. "No, I just dropped into space a month ago, though I'd look around –"

"Oh, god, shut _up_. I mean – always on the _Nubia_? I've been on...six. No, eight. Fuck, I can't remember." He took another drag, the shakes easing off a little. His ass was cold on the metal decking and he pushed himself to his feet – stared down at Angel for a moment and put out his hand.

Angel eyed it as if it just might bite him but then he sighed and reached up – pushed and let Spike pull until he gained his own feet. His hair was a little longer, a little darker. He was wearing some kind of olive canvas pants and a shirt that looked sort of home-spun, a little crooked and a little knobbly. He tugged at the hem of the shirt and crossed his arms.

"I was on the _Delaware_ when we left."

"The _Thule_." 

"You weren't on the _Jin_ when it –?"

"No, you oaf," Spike blew a lungful of smoke in Angel's face and Angel scowled. "Were you on the _Ontario_ when they had that sickness?" Fifty years ago, some kind of 'flu. Killed half the people and got them quarantined for a decade. 

"Just missed it by a month. I was on the _Meṣr_ when that psycho was doing all those torture killings, though."

"Yeah? So it wasn't you, then?" Spike said, and Angel's mouth twitched upward for a nano-second, and then flattened.

" _No_. I'm the one that found him."

"Ahhh," Spike drawled, leaking smoke and eying Angel, who looked down and away for a moment. "Heard he died a bloody suicide, left a very sorry note."

"Heard that, too."

Spike sucked down the last quarter-inch of his smoke and pinched it out – stripped the nub and shoved it into a pocket – habit of centuries, now. "Well, it's been...you know...."

"The same, actually," Angel said, and Spike shoved his hands into the filched quilted coat he'd taken from some locker and shrugged a little.

"Yeah, so...."

"So...." Angel took one shuffling step sideways and then a moment later, Spike was slammed hard into the wall, Angel's fists in his lapels and Angel's mouth on his, cool and tasteless as water, insistent and devouring.

"Fuck...yeah...got a room?"

"Two levels up, never make it," Angel said, his hips rolling in obscene presses against Spike's. 

"Christ – here's good, just –"

"Shut up, shut up," Angel moaned, and Spike shoved a hand down Angel's pants and Angel bit him, not quite hard enough to draw blood. Bit him again, right where his neck met his shoulder, and Spike arched up hard into Angel's hand and body, head thumping back against the plastic tiles of the corridor, fangs dropping. Just like old fucking times.

They lived on the _Nubia_ for a good seven years before Angel got mean and Spike got twitchy. 2225 was the year the first core planets were ready for colonization, the terraforming of a quarter-century finally coming to fruition. Those that would make landfall were chosen by lottery, and somehow Angel got himself chosen – first of a couple million to make a new home on Londinium. He hadn't bothered asking if Spike wanted to come and Spike didn't bother arguing about it.

Three days after the first shuttle dropped down the well, Spike got himself aboard the _Britain_ , headed toward Harvest and the start of more terraforming. About half the people on board thought his accent strange, the others thought it put on. The atmosphere aboard was full of excitement, triumph – terror. Ship-bred and born watching holos to get used to an endless sky – a horizon that didn't curve. Spike felt lonely, and pissed off, and restless. He didn't miss Angel at all. Not at all.

 

2293 and Spike woke to a steady, annoying beep from the com panel. He'd grounded himself for a decade or two, finally – tired of ship living in ever-diminishing crowds. Most of the big highliners were empty now, populations crowded down onto the planets, the ones in the worst shape being mined for parts. Unwired and unriveted and unwelded, piece by piece, until only the vast, beating heart of their engines were left, propulsion for newer, different ships. The little ships – the ones built by corporations and billionaires and islands – those were becoming family ships; ships too tight-knit and too familiar for Spike to use freely – to live on for decades without notice.

So here he was in a pre-fab flat fifty stories up on Boros, getting one of those new waves over the cortex. First one ever. He almost wished he'd put on a shirt. 

"Yeah, what," he rasped, throat sore from the dry air, cigarettes, yelling at the fights the night before. In general just worn down and snappish and tired of this place, and not in the mood for society. The wave was fuzzy – lines and static slipping up the screen and then clearing abruptly to a sea-view, electric light...Angel. 

"Still wake up mad, huh?" Angel said, and Spike slumped down into his chair, reaching for a smoke, for the bottle of still-made hooch – anything to distract himself for a minute.

"Well, since I'm always being woke up by some wanker...." Spike lit his smoke and twisted the cap off the bottle – took a swig and took a drag and stared at Angel. Who looked the same, really; hair a bit longer, more like it had been the first time around. Spike himself had let his grow and chopped it off and dyed it and let it grow again. It was currently a sort of mess of blondes and browns, too long for any style, too short to control. A mess, but he didn't actually care at the moment. "How'd you find me?"

Angel shifted a little in the frame of the viewer, looking slightly guilty. "Paid somebody. I was just, you know...curious."

Spike sat up straighter. "Wait – that snotty little pencil-neck that was poking 'round at my club? The one who kept asking after _William Blood_?"

"You didn't have to attack him."

"I didn't _attack_ him. I just...scared him off. Was bothering the clients."

"You mean, he was making your illegal, black-market contacts nervous."

Spike waved a negligent, ringed hand – took another drag and flicked ash on the floor. "Call it what you will. He was getting' on my last nerve. _Wángbādàn_."

"I had to pay extra for that," Angel muttered, and Spike laughed, 

"So – you on Boros, then?"

"No, Bellerophon. I lucked into a situation a few years ago –"

" _Bellerophon_. Livin' the high life, then." Spike felt a moment of envy, a twinge of dissatisfaction at his own messy flat and careless existence. Emotions he ruthlessly squashed. "So what's got you slummin', then? Wantin' a bit a rough trade?"

"Spike," Angel snapped, scowling, and Spike grinned, smoke clenched in his teeth. There it was: that old Angelus temper, always lurking. "I'm not...look, I just.... Can't you.... _Why_ do you always do this?"

"Do what?" Spike said, and Angel made an inarticulate sound of rage. 

" _This_ , this, just.... _Gāisǐ_! I've sent you a ticket, for a liner. It's leaving Boros in two days, for here. Just...come? Spike?"

Spike took a long swallow of the hooch, grimaced and put the bottle down. He glanced once more around at his flat, at the clothes tossed over the desk, at the narrow bars of windows, at the kitchen littered with bottles. At the emptiness. "Yeah, okay. Okay."

 

Angel's place was made of stone and tinted glass, with water pouring down from a second floor to a first floor pool, green-blue and rushing, soothing. Everything was tidy, was _new_ , and Spike dropped his worn duffle and shed the tattered rag of his coat and walked to the wall of windows that was opposite the main door.

Beyond was sky and sea, all shades of blue, from robin's egg to steel-grey and slate, horizon melting into sea and back again, seamless. No clouds, at least not that day. Some kind of flying creatures – sort-of-birds – dove past, swallow-winged, skimming the sea, leaving thin streaks of creamy white that faded into blue again, vanishing.

"Spared no expense, then," Spike said, and Angel moved out of a shadowy nook under the waterfall, silent on bare feet.

"Not this time," he said. He was dressed in loose, soft-looking pants and shirt, hands in his pockets, shoulders a little hunched in that way he had when he wasn't quite sure about what was going to happen next, but pretty sure he might not like it.

Spike looked him over. Had to grin, then, because fuck – Angel was Angel and nothing was different, even when everything was. He closed the distance between them with a smooth and sauntering walk – put his hands on that soft, expensive shirt and ripped it in two. "You great idiot," Spike said, low and laughing, and Angel laughed then, too.

It was slower this time than the other first time. Spike made a point of finding every spot on Angel's body that made him buck or sigh or arch or moan. Got Angel off twice before he even got in him and then got him off again before he let his own orgasm go, shoving in deep and hard, over and over, until his whole body seemed lit up, glowing – burning. Angel tasted like citrus and barley sugar and Spike drew blood from a dozen little pinpricks all over his body, lapping like a cat at cream while Angel writhed under him, panting.

Later, after showering in a sybaritic bath and wrapping himself in an oversized robe, Spike wandered through the house, exploring. Found bits and pieces of Earth-that-was tucked away, here and there. Little things, mostly. A few books; a painted saucer with a handful of old keys; a photograph or two, so faded as to be ciphers, sepia ghosts. He was glad he couldn't make out any details – didn't need to remember a past centuries gone.

Angel ordered up a few sets of new clothes and they went visiting 'round the other estates, traveling between the landscaped sky-islands in a little skimmer, drinking expensive wine and nibbling at canapés they didn't really want.

Spike slipped away and fed neatly on a drunk, post-coital couple passed out in a gazebo, and Angel only looked sideways at him later, nostrils flaring at the scent of new blood. He handed Spike a balloon goblet of treacle-like brandy and Spike decided it would be fun to be rich for a while.

 

2305 – the Blue Sun system was linked end to end by the cortex, and it seemed the 'verse had got bigger and smaller, all at the same time. It made Spike a little nervous and a lot curious, but it made Angel just that much more...the same. The problem with being rich with Angel was...Angel thought of it as a responsibility. He searched out worthy causes and stood around at dull parties listening to pontificating politicians. He _did good_ – a habit he seemed incapable of breaking – and it all bored Spike stiff.

As far as Spike was concerned, money meant kipping somewhere clean and warm, meant the best liquor and the best drugs, meant parties and pretties and having some minion do the dirty work. Angel didn't exactly disapprove, but he was used to quashing his inner demon – more used to it than Spike ever had been – and he let his snooty 'friends' give Spike sideways looks when Spike came roaring in, bottle in one hand, girl in the other, blood on his knuckles.

So Spike went back to his old ways, using Angel's money to rove over the system: visiting this planet and that space station; hovering in orbit over a moon halfway through the terraforming; watching as the surface heaved with seismic tremors, as the atmosphere curdled and burned and wept. 

He ferried black market animals and drugs and people from the four inner systems to the fringes, where engineers and miners and terraform scientists lived in cramped, dingy quarters aboard aging ships or half-built stations. He donned a suit and space-walked over the weapons platform being built at Murphy; he sampled hydroponic opium and synthetic neuro-blends and good, old-fashioned marijuana, purple and sticky and reeking of cut evergreen.

And he fought with Angel, which was the usual, but...different. Angel had moved into higher – other – cliques, and the military was circling now. His parties had Generals and Admirals in stiff uniforms, chests lacquered with medals won for nothing much, and they made Spike's fangs itch. Sometimes he dreamed, fuzzy and formless and aching, of his skull split open, lightning cleaving him. He didn't like the soldier-boys, and Angel seemed to think he should, and it all ended in a spectacular fight in Angel's new digs on Valentine.

Spike broke his hand, two walls, a lot of pretentious art, a really nice sofa and Angel's ribs, and left in the rattle-trap skimmer he'd been working on for weeks. After that, he didn't see Angel any more. He found a pretty red-head to turn and bunk with – found a newish Wasp-class transport, assembled a crew and took off for the Black. He was sick of the core – sick of rules. Sick of watching Angel try and try and try to redeem a soul that sat curled in his chest like a snake, endlessly dripping poison.

 

2460, and Spike was on his fifth ship, his eighth crew, and he'd dusted the red-head decades ago. He had a boy now, dark and lithe and slick as a snake, and they'd been running illegal drugs and guns for twenty years. Running other things, too. For a civilization mostly confined to rigidly ordered ships and cities and worlds, there was a _lot_ of shady dealings going on.

It'd only gotten worse as the core resources started to run out, and the Alliance started pushing harder rimward, into the territories of moons and planets that had long been very nearly autonomous and close to lawless. Cruisers were turning up here, there, and everywhere, and Spike was kept busy running bits and pieces and sometimes whole operations further out – further in. Sleek little Alliance scouts were hovering around, nosing into everything, and Spike finally dusted off some fancy dress and went trolling on Sihnon for an Alliance soldier-boy – or girl – who could figure out a few ways to fake a ship ID or a ship altogether. That netted him Daylen, and she was so smart she made your head hurt. Scarily proficient in tech stuff Spike had never learned – hell, half the time he'd never heard of it.

Give him a gun, though, or a grenade – he could turn the most mundane of peace-keepers into something that could take down an elephant. Suliman, his 2IC, asked him what an elephant was and Spike had to really think about it before he could say. 

In all that time, he'd only spoken to Angel once – a drunken wave that had turned into something of a wake for their past, their lives together. Angel had started in reciting poetry long about hour six and Spike had signed off in sheer self-preservation. Went and got so hammered he let his fangs drop in a bar, growling at the crowd. But they were too drunk, themselves, to care.

 

Things were getting tense all over, though. Little things that Spike, with his long-view that stretched further than most anyone could imagine, could see building in a slow, steady pattern. He could see the rim planets chafing at having to support the core, and still go begging for supplies – personnel – medicine. Could see the slow grind of the military-industrial faction as it tore down old ways, insinuated itself into everything – ate the Alliance budget and parliament with nibbling, painless bites. 

Something _ugly_ was coming, and Spike started caching weapons and money – drugs and trade goods and anything else he could think of. Safe houses and bunkers on remote moons – connections built over decades that gave him a vast web of names, talents, and intelligence. 

2489\. Out of the blue, through every defense, Angel showed up on his door. Spike was living in a converted hauler, his ship docked in the shadow of it, see-me-not static and blur thrown out on the com that would confuse any Alliance vessel into thinking it was just junk – moonlet debris, nothing of interest. Down in the galley with his crew, watching them cook and joke and relax and suddenly the klaxon was going, proximity alarm that scattered them to stations, panic making the air sharp and vital.

"Daylen!" Spike roared, heading up to the bridge with long, angry strides. She was at the com panel, stabbing buttons and swearing, and gave him a slightly panicked look when Spike stepped through the door.

"I've no idea how he did that," she said. A signal popped on the panel, viewing screen flickering to life in a wash of bluish static, strobing and wavering before it steadied to show a familiar dark head and deep-set eyes.

"You going to let me in?"

" _Angelus_ , you fucking wanker. What in bloody hell are you doing here?"

Angel's picture shifted and faded for a moment – whited out and then focused, suddenly crystal clear. "We need to talk."

"We fucking well don't. Get off my doorstep and get the hell away." Spike spun on his heel, ready to retreat – ignore – forget. But Angel's voice stopped him cold; made him turn slowly, staring – feeling a long-forgotten spasm of pain and hate.

"Spike – remember the Initiative?"

 

Spike sat looking at Angel, who leaned with fake ease against the bulkhead of Spike's quarters. He was wearing a sort of military uniform, dark browns and tans, gun at his hip, strap across his chest supporting a worn, olive-drab kit and tall, scarred boots. Spike wondered just what in hell he was playing at.

"So – talk. What's going on?"

"There's a place, called the Academy. It's set up like a...school. For gifted children. They've been recruiting for a couple decades." Angel pushed away from the wall – stepped across the room to the rumpled edge of Spike's bunk and sat down.

"Yeah, so?"

"So, they're not just recruiting. They've kidnapped some...students, too. And most of them...well...they never graduate."

"And that means what? They're not actually all that gifted? They're sellin' them to slavers? What?"

"Remember I said 'Initiative'? They're experimenting on them. Drugs, brainwashing – surgery, sometimes." 

Spike stared at Angel for a long moment and then he bent a little, reaching down to the bottom cabinet in his locker – opening it and drawing out a bottle and two glasses. He methodically poured out two drinks and capped the bottle – leaned across to give Angel his glass and then sat back with his own, the sharp-sour scent of whisky in his nose. 

"Why? What for? Trying to make some kind of...wonder-kid?"

"Some kind of super-soldier, actually." Angel drank – licked his lips, tilting the glass this way and that, eyes never leaving the oily liquid. "They're stuck, it seems. Keep killing them, or making them so crazy they're useless. They've got a moon, _Qin Shi Huang_. Got a...holding facility there. Deep Six."

Spike drank, as well, then stretched for the bottle and refilled his glass. "How many?"

"At the Academy? About fifty, right now. There's about a dozen at Deep Six. They've killed....over a hundred. " Angel finished his drink; got up and moved closer, settling one hip on Spike's com console, before pouring himself more and tossing it back with a snap of his wrist, his gaze hard.

"They're planning for something big. I can feel it. I know you can, too. I know what you've been doing – all your safe houses. They're stacking the deck with this...Academy. Or – trying to."

"Not succeeding very well, are they? And why in hell are you stalking me?"

Angel just looked at him, shoulders bowed down and the empty glass in his hands, fingers turning and turning it. "You know why."

"Don't feed me any _Auld Lang Syne_ shite, now, Angelus –"

" _William_. My boyo. Don't pretend you're pissed."

"Not pissed yet," Spike muttered, but he snorted, soft laughter, and poured Angel another drink. " _Yēsū Jīdū_. All right. Tell me more."

In the end, it was simple. Angel had been using his military contacts for years to keep track of people, politics, movements. Finger on the pulse of the 'verse, and all that. Winds of change, moving through the Black like a tide, slow but steady – inexorable, really. The Alliance was tired of its fraying edges and raveling seams. Tired of two dozen tin-pot dictators and planets who flew their own flags, of ships who didn't register with the cortex and who slipped about like ghosts, dodging cruisers and making trouble.

It was going to be war, and Angel had already picked his side. Now, he just wanted Spike to come in. Right hand man, as usual – partner in crime and even in justice. Spike lay on his back, smoking, the only light the dim, bluish glow of the com on stand-by. Beside him, Angel stirred and stretched and rolled over, coming up on one elbow. His hand slid up Spike's ribs and settled, cool and heavy, on Spike's sternum. His thigh slipped up over Spike's, pinning him with a pleasant weight.

"You can't say no, Spike."

"Course I can. Say no all the bloody time. Say no to _you_ more than anybody else."

"Sure." Angel's fingers stroked slowly, circling one nipple and then the other, taking their time. Spike shifted and sighed out smoke. "But you say yes a lot, too."

"Too bloody often." Spike ground out his smoke – turned in the narrow bunk, knees and thighs and spent cocks brushing, his hand finding the dip of Angel's waist, just above his hip bone. "What's the answer, then? What the big plan?"

Angel let his hand slide around Spike's ribs to his back – tugged him close until Spike was half on top of him, their faces inches apart.

"What we're best at, Spike. We fight. Just like always...we fight."

 

2506 was the beginning of the end, though they didn't know it at the time. It seemed they could prevail – seemed like passion and stubbornness and honor could win the day. Two years in, they suffered a bad loss at New Kasmir, losing half a battalion and a quarter of their air-tanks. But they rallied. They battled on, winning rim planets and moons and independent stations – winning hearts and minds, as Angel said, a gleam in his eyes.

Spike just laughed – tracked another highliner full of Alliance supplies and sent his squad of pirates after it. In 2510 they were besieged at Du-Khang – dug in and hunkered down for four long months while skimmer-scouts and drop ships kept them supplied and the Independent cruisers _Yangtze_ and _Darwin_ blockaded the Alliance into starvation and surrender.

But that was the last real victory. After that, it seemed, the Alliance got some extra push – some new strength. And while they won here and there, time after time, they kept losing the big ones – the strategic ones. Lost the ground they'd gained, and saw their lines stagnate – no advances, no retreats. The Alliance was shaky, too, fighting off Lords and Ladies and Senators and Citizens who were horrified at the trillions spent – the trillions more recovery would require.

The Independents were scraped thin – supply lines stretched across too many systems, resources running dry and the civilians starting to get tired, to give up, to lose hope. A three-day brainstorming session hashed out a final plan – a last, concerted push by everything, by all of them. One more decisive battle, a win to turn the tide.

Spike and Angel stood on the bridge of the _Yangtze_ , watching scout ships go out – watching air-tanks deploy, lumbering through space like great, scarred whales, bellies full of their last hope. 

"Our brave Browncoats," Spike said softly, hands locked behind his back, his own brown coat heavy on his shoulders. "They're going to die, Angel. All of them."

"Might not," Angel said, but his voice was winter-bleak, stretched as thin as they were – as they all were. 

"Never have gone down without a fight, though, have we," Spike said softly, and Angel laughed. 

"Never have. Guess we'll go down again, then."

"Fists and fangs," Spike said, and nudged Angel with his shoulder. Angel turned and sent him a flashing, sharp-edged, grin, golden eyes gleaming, and Spike laughed out loud, baring his own fangs.

"Next stop, Serenity Valley. See you in hell, Angelus."

"As always, William. As always."

**Author's Note:**

> I could not have done this without the excellent resources of this timeline at the [The Firefly and Serenity Database](http://firefly.wikia.com/wiki/Main_Page). Also, the now defunct but Wayback-able [FireflyWiki Timeline](http://web.archive.org/web/20110617052051/http://www.fireflywiki.org/Firefly/FireflyTimeline), and the [FireflyWiki Cortex Lexicon](http://web.archive.org/web/20110617051739/http://www.fireflywiki.org/Firefly/CortexLexicon). There's also the [List of Firefly Planets and Moons](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Firefly_planets_and_moons).
> 
> Chinese translations are from this [marvelous site](http://www.mdbg.net/chindict/chindict.php). I don't intend for The Academy to equal the Initiative, but the comparison is a fair one, I'd say.


End file.
